Burns, looking on, hands in pockets, suddenly observed, “We fellows ought to be doing something for her.  What do you say to every man going for a scythe and cutting the grass?  No lawn mower can tackle a tangle like this.”

Macauley groaned.  “Why begin to be neighbourly at such a pace?  Cutting this grass is going to be no easy task.”

But Chester and Burns had already started across the street, and Macauley was obliged to follow.  By the time darkness fell the front yard had been cropped into at least a semblance of tidiness, and Charlotte was offering her thanks to three warm gentlemen, and regretting that she had not been keeping house long enough to have any refreshment to offer them.

“Come over when we are settled, and Granny and I will have some sparkling Southern beverages for you,” she promised.

“You are coming over to sleep, child,” Ellen said, as the time for departure arrived, and Charlotte showed signs of closing up her small domain.

“Not at all.  I mean to have the fun of spending my first night in my new home,” Miss Ruston declared, and held to her decision, in spite of the arguments and entreaties of the women and the assertions of the men that she would be afraid.

“Well, then, beat on a dishpan if anything disturbs you, and we’ll rush across in a body and rescue you,” promised Macauley.

Left alone, Charlotte went inside, lighted a genial looking lamp, and sat down alone in her little living-room.  Chin in her palms, she leaned her elbows upon the spindle-legged table, looking up at the portrait of her mother, its fine colourings glowing in the mellow light from the lamp.  She sat for a long time in this posture, her eyes losing their sparkle and growing dreamy, and—­at last—­a trifle misty.  When this stage occurred she suddenly jumped up, carried the lamp into the kitchen, searched until she found a candle and lighted it, then, extinguishing the lamp, she went slowly upstairs to the cot bed.

By the following evening her preparations were so far complete that she could take the evening train for Baltimore, announcing that the two future occupants of the little house would return within forty-eight hours.  During her absence the three women who were her friends put their heads together, ordered extra baking and brewing done in their own kitchens, and ended by stocking her small shelves with a great array of good things.

Before the forty-eight hours had quite gone by Miss Ruston was leading a tiny figure, with shoulders held almost as straight as her own, in at the hedge gate.  It was twilight of the August evening.  The cottage door was open and the rays from the lamp lately lighted by her neighbours streamed down the path.

Charlotte stooped—­she had to stoop a long way—­and put her lips close to the small ear under the white hair which lay softly over it.  “Doesn’t it look like home, Granny?” she said, in a peculiar, clear tone, a little raised.