An ancient apple-tree, that she well remembered, stood near the house, and the spreading branches were bent almost to the earth with the weight of red-streaked apples, round and ripe.  The shaggy, black dog, that so often frolicked with Grip in the days gone by, now lay on the step, blinking at the sun and the flies that now and then buzzed over the golden balsam, whose crimson seed glowed in the evening sunshine.

Over the rocky well rose a rude arbor, where a scuppernong vine clambered and hung its rich, luscious brown clusters; and here, with a pipe between her lips, and at her feet a basket full of red pepper-pods, which she was busily engaged in stringing, sat an elderly woman.  She was clad in blue and yellow plaid homespun, and wore a white apron and a snowy muslin cap, whose crimped ruffles pressed caressingly the grizzled hair combed so smoothly over her temples.  Presently she laid her pipe down on the top of the mossy well, where the dripping bucket sat, and lifted the scarlet wreath of peppers, eyed it satisfactorily, and, as she resumed her work, began to hum “Auld Lang Syne.”

  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to mind? 
   Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And days o’ lang syne?”

The countenance was so peaceful and earnest and honest, that, as Edna stood watching it, a warm, loving light came into her own beautiful eyes, and she put out both hands unconsciously, and stepped into the little arbor.

Her shadow fell upon the matronly face, and the woman rose and courtesied.

“Good evening, miss.  Will you be seated?  There is room enough for two on my bench.”

The orphan did not speak for a moment, but looked up in the brown, wrinkled face, and then, pushing back her bonnet and veil, she said eagerly: 

“Mrs. Wood, don’t you know me?”

The miller’s wife looked curiously at her visitor, glanced at her dress, and shook her head.

“No, miss; if ever I set my eyes on you before, it’s more than I remember, and Dorothy Wood has a powerful memory, they say, and seldom forgets faces.”

“Do you remember Aaron Hunt, and his daughter Hester?”

“To be sure I do; but you a’n’t neither the one nor the other, I take it.  Stop—­let me see.  Aha!  Tabitha, Willis, you children, run here—­quick!  But, no—­it can’t be.  You can’t be Edna Earl?”

She shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun and stooped forward, and looked searchingly at the stranger; then the coral wreath fell from her fingers, she stretched out her arms, and the large mouth trembled and twitched.

“Are you—­can you be—­little Edna?  Aaron Hunt’s grandchild?”

“I am the poor little Edna you took such tender care of in her great affliction—­”

“Samson and the Philistines!  Little Edna—­so you are!  What was I thinking about, that I didn’t know you right away?  God bless your pretty white face!”