“Praise God, for he is kind;
His mercy lasts for aye;
Give thanks with heart and mind
To God of Gods alway. 
For certainly
His mercies dure,
Most firm and sure,
Eternally.”

The quaint rendering—­new to her—­pleased her, and she sang others, closing in low, soft notes, with: 

“The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want,
He makes me down to lie;
In pastures green he leadeth me
The quiet waters by.”

And the dear old mother dreamed, as a strain or two of Lenox and St. Martin’s floated up to her room, that she was in the old home, and “father” was conducting family worship.  Little by little, with her coaxing ways, Marian succeeded in effecting a change in her mother-in-law’s dress, and when one day everything was finished, and she had her arrayed in a fine black cashmere, made according to her own ideas of simplicity, the white hair crowned with a soft white lace cap, and the same soft folds about hep neck, her delight was complete.

“You dear, beautiful mother,” she said, clasping the lace with a plain jet pin; “it is just delightful to fix you up, everything sets you out so; its better than dressing dolls.  Won’t Benjie be delighted?”

When Maria, and John, and John’s wife came to visit their new sister-in-law, they were astonished beyond measure to find that mother had been transformed into that handsome old lady who moved about this elegant home with easy dignity, as if it were her own.  This rare son and daughter never made their mother feel that she was that uncomfortable third person who spoiled delightful confidences for young people; they talked freely together, and with her, and she renewed her youth in their lively intercourse.  When company was announced she was given to retiring in haste from the room, just as she did at Maria’s and John’s, but Marian stopped that with “Please do stay, mother, and help us entertain them; besides, I want you in that corner with your bright knitting to make our rooms picturesque; you’re the greatest ornament they contain.”  Then the old lady would say, “Pooh! you don’t want an old body like me,” albeit she was well pleased that she was wanted, and would remain, occasionally throwing in her quaint remark, adding zest to the conversation.

If an old lady could be easily spoiled, Mrs. Kensett was in danger; these two fond children were continually bringing offerings to her shrine, flowers, choice fruit, new books, wherever they went they remembered her.  It was an altogether new and delightful life that she had entered upon.  With Marian she visited charitable institutions, dispensed bounties—­read the Bible to the sick and poor, and ministered comfort to many a distressed soul.  They attended wonderful meetings, and sat in heavenly places, and Marian and she enjoyed each other quite as much as they did everything else.  The tie that united them was not Benjamin alone; each recognised in the other the lineaments of the Lord she loved, their sympathies flowed together as if half a century did not stretch between them.