Her home was almost a miracle of neatness.  She could work with no peace of mind until the house had been swept and dusted.  A fly speck on the window was enough to cloud her day.  She went to town with David now and then — not oftener than once a quarter — and came back ill and exhausted.  If she sat in a store waiting for David, while he went to mill or smithy, her imagination gave her no rest.  That dirt abhorring mind of hers would begin to clean the windows, and when that was finished it would sweep the floor and dust the counters.  In due course it would lower the big chandelier and take out all the lamps and wash the chimneys with soap and water and rub them till they shone.  Then, if David had not come, it would put in the rest of its time on the woodwork.  With all her cleaning I am sure the good woman kept her soul spotless.  Elizabeth Brower believed in goodness and the love of God, and knew no fear.  Uncle Eb used to say that wherever Elizabeth Brower went hereafter it would have to be clean and comfortable.

Elder Whitmarsh came often to dinner of a Sunday, when he and Mrs Brower talked volubly about the Scriptures, he taking a sterner view of God than she would allow.  He was an Englishman by birth, who had settled in Faraway because there he had found relief for a serious affliction of asthma.

He came over one noon in the early summer, that followed the event of our last chapter, to tell us of a strawberry party that evening at the White Church.

‘I’ve had a wonderful experience,’ said he as he took a seat on the piazza, while Mrs Brower came and sat near him.  ’I’ve discovered a great genius — a wandering fiddler, and I shall try to bring him to play for us.’

‘A fiddler! why, Elder!’ said she, ‘you astonish me!’

‘Nothing but sacred music,’ he said, lifting his hand.  ’I heard him play all the grand things today — “Rock of Ages”, “Nearer My God, to Thee”, “The Marseillaise” and “Home, Sweet Home”.  Lifted me off my feet!  I’ve heard the great masters in New York and London, but no greater player than this man.’

‘Where is he and where did he come from?’

‘He’s at my house now,’ said the good man.  ’I found him this morning.  He stood under a tree by the road side, above Nortlrup’s.  As I came near I heard the strains of “The Marseillaise”.  For more than an hour I sat there listening.  It was wonderful, Mrs Brower, wonderful!  The poor fellow is eccentric.  He never spoke to me.  His clothes were dusty and worn.  But his music went to my heart like a voice from Heaven.  When he had finished I took him home with me, gave him food and a new coat, and left him sleeping.  I want you to come over, and be sure to bring Hope.  She must sing for us.’

’Mr Brower will be tired out, but perhaps the young people may go,’ she said, looking at Hope and me.

My heart gave a leap as I saw in Hope’s eyes a reflection of my own joy.  In a moment she came and gave her mother a sounding kiss and asked her what she should wear.