“I’m glad to hear it, I’m sure,” said Miss Hepsy, looking very much as if she was not glad at all.  “Well, I guess we’d better be movin’.—­What’s your name, boy?” she said, turning to the lad with an abruptness which made him start.

“My name is Tom, aunt,” he answered promptly; “this is Lucy.”  “Miss Hetty might have called one of ye after her own kin.—­Well, good-day, Mr. Goldthwaite; I guess Josh’ll walk down to the parsonage at night an’ pay up.—­Come along.”

“Good-bye, Tom, good-bye, Lucy, in the meantime,” said the minister kindly.  “We shall see each other often, I fancy.”

“Oh, sir, I hope so,” said Lucy, speaking for the first time.  “You have been so kind to us when we had nobody else.”  Her dark eyes suddenly overflowed, and she turned away to follow her aunt, while Tom, whistling to vent some strong feeling, went on in front.

Miss Hepsy walked as if for a wager, and never opened her mouth once, until they stood upon the threshold of Thankful Rest.

“Now, look here; this is yer home,” she said; then, fixing grim eyes alternately on their faces, “an’ I hope ye’ll behave, an’ show yer gratitude for it.  That’s all.—­I bet Keziah’s burned the soup;” with which words Miss Hepsy burst into the kitchen, ready to extinguish the unfortunate “help” if everything was not up to the mark.  The brother and sister lingered a moment on the threshold, feeling new and strange and sad, their welcome had been so disappointing.

“Lucy,” said Tom Hurst suddenly, “do you believe that woman’s mamma’s sister?  I don’t.”

“Of course she is,” returned Lucy.  “And you must not call her ’that woman,’ Tom; she is our aunt, mamma’s sister, you know, and we must behave, she says.”

Tom made a wry face.  “I don’t feel like behaving any,” he said.  “But I say, Lucy, isn’t this a prime place?”

Lucy’s eyes beamed as they looked round the pretty, peaceful homestead, with its laden orchard, wealth of flowers and glorious summer beauty.  But she did not answer.

“We’d better go in, I suppose, though we weren’t asked,” said Tom.  “I wonder if it’s near dinner-time; I’m famished.”

He pushed open the door, and, followed by Lucy, entered the wide-bricked kitchen.  A sudden change had taken place in Aunt Hepsy’s appearance.  In the twinkling of an eye she had donned her working garb again, and was paring potatoes at the table.  Fortunately, the dinner had progressed satisfactorily during her absence.

“Come in and sit down,” she said, pointing to the settle at the fire.  “Ye’ll be hungry, I reckon; but it’ll soon be dinner-time.  I don’t approve of eating ’tween meals.—­I guess you never did any of this kind o’ work, Lucy?”

“No, Aunt Hepsy,” returned Lucy timidly.  “I’ve seen Hannah do it; that was our girl.”

“Humph; ye won’t be long here before ye can pare potatoes as well as Hannah.  You’ll be willin’ to learn, I hope?”