[Illustration:  “Mrs. Jimson was on her knees scrubbing the barn floor.”]

The morning it was all ready at last, in spotless order, with the bright sunshine and the soft spring breezes pouring in at the open windows, Gerry ran down the hill to the Centre.

The little Jimsons were not playing in the mud outside the tumble-down house as usual.  Mrs. Jimson met Gerry at the door in a trim dark calico dress that made a different woman of her.  Seated in a beaming circle within were the five children, each clad from top to toe in clean, fresh garments, from Tad down to the baby, who was crowing in Jennie’s arms, radiant in a gay pink gingham.

“Aren’t we splendid, Miss Gerry?” cried the little girl, pushing a glowing face out from behind the baby’s head.  “Ma’s just got us dressed up, and we’re going to have a bonfire of the old ones.”

“It was the Ladies’ Aid, Miss Gerry,” supplemented Mrs. Jimson almost as excitedly.  “They’ve just gone, Mrs. Benton has, and they brought us all these and more.  Did you ever see anything like it?  Of course, I’m going to help clean the church to help make up,” she added with a new womanly dignity that was very becoming; “but I couldn’t never pay for the kindness, never!”

“It’s beautiful,” said Gerry, “beautiful!  I couldn’t tell how glad I am.  I’m so glad, too, that you’ve got them on, for mother wants you to come up to the house a few minutes, all of you.  It’s something very important.”

[Illustration:  “We want to show you our new house.”]

Seizing Tommy, the two-year-old, by the hand, she hurried off ahead of them, fearing she could not keep her secret if she delayed another instant.  Up the hill and across the wide grassy yard she led them, straight to where Mother Brace stood in the barn doorway.

“I’ve brought them,” she said, and stopped, overwhelmed by this crowning moment.

“We want you to see our new house we’ve fixed up,” Mother Brace explained, coming to the rescue.  “Come in, all of you.”

Considerably bewildered, Mrs. Jimson obeyed, shooing the children before her like a flock of chickens.  It was not usual for her to be called upon for opinion or approval; and she made the most of it, exclaiming with admiration and delight as they made the rounds of the tiny bedrooms, and stood once more in the long, shining kitchen with its neatly blackened stove and its row of polished tin pans.

“It couldn’t be no completer, no ways,” she pronounced judgment.  “Nor no prettier.”

Then Gerry found her voice, and the words came tumbling out in joyful haste.

“It’s all for you, Mrs. Jimson.  You’re to come here this very day, and this is to be your home.  You are to sleep in the bedrooms, and cook in the kitchen, and—­”

“But I don’t understand,” faltered Mrs. Jimson, her bewilderment deepening with every second.  “Where did it come from?  Whose is it?  How—­”