I went out into the crisp air with Louis’ arm for support, and a thousand strange thoughts whirling in my brain.  “Great, indeed, must have been the sorrow which could have driven so tender a plant from home.”

“Yes,” said Louis, “God pity the man whose ruthless hand has killed the blossoms of her loving heart.  She looks like little mother, Emily.”

“So she does, Louis.”  And we talked earnestly, forgetting everything but this strange, sweet face.  Supper was ready, and the rest were at the table.

“What have you been up to?” said Ben, “you look like two tombstones.”  I related briefly the history, and concluded by saying: 

“She looks as frail as a flower.”  To which Mr. Benton added: 

“Doubtless her frailty, Miss Minot, is the cause of her present suffering.”

“Poor lamb,” said Clara, “how thankful we should feel that Matthias found her.”

“Yes,” said Louis, “and if he only could have thought to have carried her into Mr. Goodwin’s, and then come over after us, she would not have so hard a struggle for life.”

“Do you think she can live?” said Mr. Benton.

“Oh, yes!” said Louis, “the blood has started, and with Aunt Hildy by her bedside she will be, by to-morrow, very comfortable.  I think she had not been there long when we found her.”

“Perhaps she will not thank you for bringing her back to life, however.”

“Perhaps not,” said Louis, “still it seems a sacred duty, and in my opinion, not finished with her mere return to life.  She looks very beautiful—­looks like little mother,” turning in admiration to Clara, whose eyes reflected the love she held in her heart for him.

Father and mother were silent, but after supper mother said they would ride over and see if anything was necessary to be done that they could attend to.  My mother was too silent and too pale through these days.  I looked at the prospect of less work for her with pleasure, and after Mr. Benton left there certainly would be less.  Louis would have Hal’s room, and Clara then would see to their apartments almost entirely.  This would be a relief, and now that my mind was at ease, I knew I could be of more service, while Aunt Hildy would still remain, for she said she would make “Mis’ Minot’s burden as easy as she could, while the Lord gave her strength to do it.”

After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very particular to attend to.  I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at her smilingly.  “My Emily guesses it,” she said, “something for the little lamb.  Emily will help me too, have I not said it?” and she passed like a sweet breath from the room.

“Now Louis,” I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,—­our old-fashioned people called it “soffy,”—­“let us look at that letter.”