Surely, she would some day be his own, and leaning his head upon the cane he carried, he prayed earnestly for the good he coveted, keeping his head down so long that, until it had left the strip of woods and emerged into the open fields, he did not see the figure, wrapped in waterproof and hood, with a huge umbrella over its head and a basket upon its arm, which came picking its way daintily toward the house, stopping occasionally, and lifting up the little, high-heeled Balmoral, which the mud was ruining so completely.  Katy was coming to Linwood.  It had been baking day at the farmhouse, and remembering how much Morris used to love her custards, Aunt Betsy had prepared him some, which she warranted to “melt in his mouth,” and then asked Katy to take them over, so he could have them for tea.

“The rain won’t hurt you an atom,” she said, as Katy began to demur and glance at the lowering sky.  “You can wear your waterproof boots and my shaker, if you like, and I do so want Morris to have them to-night.”

Thus importuned, Katy consented to go, but declined the loan of Aunt Betsy’s shaker, which being large of the kind, and capeless, too, was not the most becoming headgear a woman could wear.  With the basket of custards, and cup of jelly she made herself, Katy finally started forth, Aunt Betsy saying to her, as in the door she stopped to take up her dress:  “It must he dretful lonesome for Morris to-day.  S’posin’ you stay to supper with him, and when it’s growin’ dark I’ll come over for you.  You’ll find the custards fust-rate.”

Katy did not think it very probable that she should stay to tea with Morris, but she made no reply, and walked away, while Aunt Betsy went back to the coat she was patching for her brother, saying to herself: 

“I’m bound to fetch that ’round.  It’s a shame for two young folks, just fitted to each other, to live apart when they might be so happy, with Hannah, and Lucy, and me, close by, to see to ’em, and allus make their soap, and see to the butcherin’, besides savin’ peneryle and catnip for the children, if there was any.”

Aunt Betsy had turned matchmaker in her old age, and day and night she planned how to bring about the match between Morris and Katy.  That they were made for each other she had no doubt.  From something which Helen inadvertantly let fall she had guessed that Morris wanted Katy prior to her marriage with Wilford.  She had suspected as much before, she was sure of it now, and straightway put her wits at work “to make it go,” as she expressed it.  But Katy was too shy to suit her, and since Morris’ convalescence had stayed too much from Linwood.  To-day, however, Aunt Betsy “felt it in her bones” that, if properly managed, something would happen, and the custards were but the means to the desired end.  With no suspicion whatever of the good dame’s intentions, Katy picked her way to Linwood, and leaving her damp garments in the hall, lest Morris should take cold, went at once into the library, where he was sitting near to a large chair kept sacred for her, his face looking unusually cheerful, and the room unusually pleasant, with the bright wood fire on the hearth.  She knew he was glad she had come, that he thought more of her being there than of the custards she brought him.