“Dear mother,” she said, “I am so glad you have come!  You are cold; sit right here,” and she wheeled a large chair into the warmest corner, and with her own hands removed the wrappings and carried them away.  “I wanted to have the toast just the right brown, so I was doing it myself,” she explained, as she took up her toasting-fork and went on with her work, and the old mother sat and feasted her eyes on the pretty picture—­the bright, happy face, the quick, graceful movements, as she dexterously put last little touches to the table, chatting pleasantly meanwhile, making tender inquiries about her health and her journey.  Mrs. Kensett began already to feel as if this was a dear daughter separated from her years ago and now restored.  “It seemed just as if I had been away visiting and got home again,” she told someone afterward.

After tea and resting, they both went with her in merry procession to her room, carrying shawls and satchel, and waiting with the eager joy of two children to see how she liked everything.  She would have been hard to suit if she had not liked it.  The room was a large, pleasant one, with a sunny bay window, a stand of plants, a case of books, and every other thing that she could possibly need or desire.

Mrs. Kensett started as her eye fell on familiar objects; there was the claw-footed mahogany centre-table with antique carvings, her straight-backed old rocker, and “father’s” dear arm-chair, both newly cushioned, and otherwise brightened up.  The sofa, too, of ancient pattern, that had stood in her parlour at Hawthorn for forty years, looked like an old friend in a new dress.  Benjamin had ransacked all the carpet stores to find a carpet that would resemble as nearly as possible, in colour and design, his mother’s parlour carpet when he was a boy.  He succeeded so well that his mother put on her glasses and bent nearer to make sure that it was not that identical one.

In an out-of-the-way corner she discovered her little three-legged stand holding a tiny brass candlestick (one of her wedding presents) and the snuffers on the japanned trays.  It was not alone that the old times were brought back so vividly that made the tears come, but this one little thing showed such loving thoughtfulness for her comfort.  (John’s wife would never have allowed a candle in the house.)

This was Benjamin’s hour of triumph and gladness; for this he had spent years of patient toil, and now it had come in such a strange, unexpected way, it, and so much more than he had asked or looked for; this princely home, this precious wife, and mother abiding with them all the rest of her days; it was too much, such loving-kindness!

Marian understood; she did not express surprise when he brought out a little worn psalm-book that she had never seen, and said: 

“Sing this for me, dear, to some old tune that fits it; I wish I knew what my father sang it to when I was a boy.”

“I have a book of old music here, perhaps I can find the very one,” she said; and then the pure voice soared out in the song of praise his father had loved: