There were some objections made on account of the rain, but Miranda overruled them all.

She drew Mrs. Bemis aside and confided to her that she didn’t want Ephrum’s boys to stay even one night in the poor-house, because “it might stick to ’em afterwards.”  And she shouldn’t really feel that they were going to belong to her until she had them in her own house.

So, through the driving rain, in the open wagon which was the most luxurious equipage that the poor-farm boasted, Miranda was driven home with her proteges; while Mrs. Bemis gave way to renewed anxiety about the fall tailorin’ and Dr. Pingree heaved a sigh over his vanished dreams,—­a very gentle one, he was so used to seeing dreams vanish; and there was consolation in having such an event to talk over.

Miranda’s home was a rambling old house, and it seemed deserted and ghostly when they entered it; but Miranda kindled a fire In the kitchen stove and another in the great fireplace in the sitting-room, and the boys, warmed and fed and comforted, grew hilarious, and the ghosts were all dispersed, and it seemed to Miranda for the first time like home.

When she had seen all three cosily tucked into their beds, she went downstairs to rake over the fire and see that all was safe for the night.  She found herself too full of a happy excitement to seek her own slumbers.  Ephraim was dead; but he had faded out of her life long before; he had been nothing but a memory, and she had that still.  He even seemed nearer to her, being in the Far Country, than he had done before.  And his children were under her roof; hers to feed and clothe and care for in the happy days that were coming; hers to educate.  What joy to have the means to do it with! what greater joy to work and save and manage that there should be enough!

Miranda looked into the leaping flame of her fire and saw brightest pictures of the future,—­until suddenly she turned her head away and covered her face with her hands, groaning bitterly:  it was only a blackened limb that, standing tall and straight in the flame, took upon itself a grotesque resemblance to a one-armed man.  And Miranda remembered her affianced the book-agent.  “Oh, land I how could I ‘a’ forgot!  I’ve give him my promise.”

To Miranda’s Puritan mind a promise was to be kept, with tears and blood if need were.

“Oh, what a foolish woman I’ve been!  If I had only waited till I found out what the Lord did mean by sendin’ that money to me! He wouldn’t stand the boys, anyhow:  he’s nigh and graspin’:  I’ve found that out.  And I don’t suppose I could buy him off with anything short of the whole property.  I did think he cared a little something about me, and mebbe he does.  I don’t want to be too hard on him, but he was terrible put out because I wouldn’t give him but three hundred dollars to pay down for that land that he’s buy in’ at such a bargain.  I s’pose I should, only I couldn’t help thinkin’ he might wait till we was married before he begun to think about investin’ my money.  No, he won’t let me off from marryin’ him unless I give him all my money.  Yesterday I had thoughts of doin’ that; but now there’s the boys.”