XIV.A GREAT CHANGE.
XIV.A GREAT CHANGE.
You will be wondering what Tom had been about during his sister's illness; but he was still in ignorance of it, his friends thinking it best to wait till the crisis was past. It fell to Aunt Hepsy's lot to send the news, and her letter was such a curiosity in its way that I cannot do better than set it down just as it was.
THANKFUL REST,April 18th, 18—.MY DEAR NEPHEW,—I daresay you'll wonder to hear from me, an' will maybe feel skeered; so, to relieve you, I may as well say at once that Lucy's been sick, very sick, but she's getting round nicely now, thank the Lord. She is in bed yet, and I'm writing this beside her. She sends her love, and says she'll write to-morrow. I guess I'll let her do it in about a month. I want to ask you to forgive me for being so hard on you when you lived here. I hope you don't bear your old aunt any grudge. Lucy, God bless her, won't hear me abuse myself, so it's a relief to do it to you, though you are a boy. I keep that picter you drew of me that I slapped you for, an' I'll look at it when I feel my pesky temper gettin' up. I suppose ye'll be so took up with your paintin' ye couldn't never think of coming back to Thankful Rest. It wouldn't be good for you, if you're getting on any way with Mr. Robert Keane. But you'll come right away in summer, an' see what a different place Lucy has made of Thankful Rest, an' how precious she is to your uncle an' me. I guess she's one of the Lord's messengers, sent to do what all the preachin' in the world couldn't. I reckon I'll finish up. It has took me an hour to write this, I'm so slow with the pen. Give my respects to Mr. Robert Keane; and when he comes to Thankful Rest in summer, maybe he'll get a better welcome than he got before. So no more at present. From your affectionate aunt,HEPSEY
That letter reached Boston Avenue in the evening, when Tom was poring over a book of instructions for young artists. He was in his own sanctum, which Mr. Keane had given him when he came—a tiny apartment next the artist's studio, and commanding from its window the finest view in Philadelphia. Tom seized the letter from the servant's hand. He had written twice to Lucy, and was anxiously wondering at her delay in answering, for Lucy had always been a faithful and punctual correspondent.
You would have laughed had you seen the varying expressions on Tom's face as he read Aunt Hepsy's epistle;—concern at first to hear Lucy was ill; relief to find her recovering; and, last of all, mute, dumfoundered amazement at Aunt Hepsy.
Mr. Keane opened his studio by-and-by and looked out.
"Well, Tom, news from Lucy at last, my boy?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Tom soberly, yet with an odd twinkle in his eye; and then he held out the open letter, saying simply, "Read that, Mr. Keane."
Mr. Keane smiled too as he read. "Lucy has conquered, as I thought she would," he said. "See, Tom, what an influence a meek, gentle, loving spirit like Lucy's has in the world. You and I with our fiery tempers sink into nothingness beside her."
"You, Mr. Keane!" echoed Tom in amazement. "I don't think you have a temper at all."
"Haven't I?" The artist's smile grew sad. "There was a boy once who was expelled from three schools for impertinence and insubordination, and put his parents to the expense of keeping a tutor for him at home. That tutor, Tom, was a man of splendid talents, which his delicate health forbade him to exercise as he desired. His pupil killed him, Tom; the worry and anxiety lest he should not come up to the parents' expectation, combined with what he had to bear from the boy himself, broke his health down, and he died. That boy wasme."
Tom sat wondering, while Mr. Keane, walking to and fro, continued slowly—"I went to see him when he was dying, in his poor lodging: he was very poor, you must understand, but nobody durst offer him anything, lest he should feel hurt or insulted. As long as I live, Tom, I shall never forget that night. I saw then clearly how wicked I had been, and how what I thought manly independence befitting my station was only the cowardice of a spirit as far beneath his as earth is beneath heaven. That was a lesson I never forgot; and since that night I have tried, with God's help, to use the legacy he left me."
"What was it?" asked Tom breathlessly.
Mr. Keane lifted Lucy's Bible from the side-table, and turning over the pages held it out to Tom, his finger pointing to the place.
"Tom," said Mr. Keane one morning a few days later, "I believe you are going to Pendlepoint tomorrow?"
"What?" Tom nearly bounded off his chair. The longing to go home to Lucy for a day or two had well-nigh overcome him since Aunt Hepsy's letter came; but he had tried to stifle it, and had applied himself with double energy to his studies.
"If you don't wish to go, of course I have no more to say," began Mr. Keane; but Tom interrupted him—
"O sir, you don't mean me to go home for good and all, I hope; have I disappointed you? I have tried so hard, sir."
"Stop, stop!" cried Mr. Keane. "Wait till I hint at such a thing. You have surpassed my expectations, my boy. I thought you would like to see your sister, but if I am mistaken—"
"I do want to go, sir; I would give the world almost to see her—but—"
"Well?"
"The expense, sir," Tom ventured to say, encouraged by his kind friend's manner. "It is a long journey, and I have cost you so much already."
"Nonsense; I am a rich man, Tom. But for all that I expect you to pay me back some day. You and I will have a great reckoning by-and-by."
There was a moment's silence.
"How did you know I wanted to go home, Mr. Keane?" said Tom by-and-by.
"I have eyes, my boy," was all Mr. Keane answered, saying nothing of a note he had received from his sister, which ran thus:—
RED HOUSE,April 27th.DEAR ROBERT,—Send Tom to Thankful Rest for a few days. Lucy will get well twice as fast after she sees him.—Your affectionate sister,ALICE.
Next morning saw a very happy boy take his place in the train, which would land him at Pendlepoint in the evening. It was a long, tiresome journey, especially to an impatient being like Tom. But it came to an end, as all things pleasant or unpleasant must, and he found himself at the little old-fashioned depot towards seven o'clock at night. There was no one to meet him, of course, because no one, not even Miss Keane, expected him so soon. He ran all the way to the parsonage, and knocked at the door, only to find Abbie in sole possession.
"The parson he be down town, Master Tom," she said, "and Miss Carrie she be at Thankful Rest. I guess she's there most days till night."
Tom thanked her and ran off again across the bridge and through the meadow, not even pausing to look at the cattle, nor to see that Sally was enjoying an unwonted holiday, and a dainty bite at the tender young grass, which the mild weather had brought forward very fast. He paused just a moment outside the orchard fence, and looked at the house, not a little surprised to feel how glad he was to see it again, and how dear it was to him after all. Then he pushed open the gate, went up the path and over the garden fence, and saw Uncle Josh digging the potato patch.
"Halloo, Uncle Josh!" he shouted, feeling quite jovial and free towards him; and Uncle Josh started up and let his spade fall from his hands.
"Marcy, younker, whar did ye come from?" was all he could utter. But, no longer the surly man that he had been, he held out his hand to him, and looked more than pleased to see him.
"I came from Philadelphia to see Lucy," answered Tom soberly. "How is she?"
"Oh, gettin' along fast; she's in the far parlour these two days, able to sit up till 'most night. I guess she won't be sot up to see ye—oh no, not at all."
There was a twinkle in Uncle Josh's eye, a thing Tom had never seen before. Surely therewasa change at Thankful Rest.
"I'll go in now," said Tom; and he went away round to the back door. Keziah was making something at the stove, and nearly upset the saucepan in her amazement. Tom nodded to her, and went off to the far parlour. The door was ajar and he peeped in. Wasthatthe far parlour? No, it could not be. There were white curtains at the window, flowers everywhere. A sparkling fire in the high brass grate; a low, restful rocking-chair at the hearth; and a couch he did not remember to have seen before, but it looked as if it had been made for ease and comfort. And on the couch lay Lucy, the fire-light dancing on her face: it was pale and thin, but happy-looking, he could see.
She heard a noise at the door, and said, without looking round, "Are you dressed already, Miss Carrie? How fast you have been!"
There was no answer; then Lucy looked round and gave a great cry. And Tom ran in and knelt down beside her, and gathered her shawl and all in his arms, and they held each other very close; and for a long time there was nothing said.
"How did you come?" asked Lucy at last, her face radiant with joy.
"By train. Mr. Keane sent me. Are you glad, Lucy?"
"Glad?" Lucy had no words wherewith to express her gladness, but it was evident enough.
Just then footsteps sounded on the stair, and Miss Hepsy came into the room followed by Miss Goldthwaite.
She looked scared a moment, but when Tom rose and came to her saying—"I came to see Lucy, Aunt Hepsy, and to thank you for being so good to her,"—she just sat down in the rocking-chair and sobbed like a child. Here was a state of matters! and Tom did not know just then whether to laugh or to cry. But Miss Carrie diverted him by asking questions about his journey, and by-and-by Miss Hepsy rose and said she'd get supper.
"An' ye'll jist bide, Miss Goldthwaite, an' we'll all have it here with Lucy.—Dear, dear, this is a great night. Who'd 'a thought to see you, Tom, all the way from Philadelphia?"
"You look pretty comfortable, Lucy," said Tom jokingly. "I wouldn't mind being sick myself, to be codled up like this."
Lucy smiled, but her eyes grew dim.
"I can't speak about it, Tom," she said. "Aunt Hepsy is too good to me; she reminds me of mamma sometimes.—Isn't she kind, Miss Carrie?"
Miss Carrie nodded, her sweet face full of satisfaction. Evidently the new state of affairs was after her own heart.
By-and-by the table was set, and they all gathered round it, and Tom had a real Thankful Rest supper.
There was not much said; but Tom saw how Aunt Hepsy watched and tended Lucy; and how Uncle Josh, too, had grown gentle even in his roughness; and, above all, he saw how beautiful was Lucy's face in its perfect happiness and content.
"You don't eat, Lucy, my pet," said Aunt Hepsy anxiously.
"I can't, auntie; I am so happy, it's no use;" and Lucy covered her face with her hands and fairly sobbed.
Then Tom rose to his feet, and gave vent to a cheer which would have done honour to an Englishman.
"Bless me, boy, ye'll bring the house down," said Aunt Hepsy, but not looking at all displeased.
"Can't help it, Aunt Hepsy; it's surplus steam; must let it off, or I can't answer for the consequences." And he cheered again and again, till Keziah ran to see what was the matter. She went back to the kitchen saying to herself, "When I see an' hear that here, I feel like believin', Deacon Frost, that the world's comin' to an end."
Not the world exactly, Keziah, only the old, hard, miserable days have come to an end for ever, and a new era has begun at Thankful Rest.
XV.THE WEDDING.
XV.THE WEDDING.
Tom stayed a week at home—homeit truly was to both Lucy and him now, and he left it with regret. But the work he loved and had chosen called him away, and knowing Lucy would be tenderly cared for, he went back to Philadelphia, carrying a much lighter heart than when he first entered it three months before. The summer would be a busy one for him; and as the months sped he proved the truth of Mr. Keane's words, that it was only through much hard, plodding, uninteresting work, that he could ever hope to place his foot on the first step of the ladder. But he had a kind hand and an encouraging word always ready to help him on, and was happy in his apprenticeship.
Thanks to Aunt Hepsy's careful nursing, midsummer saw Lucy fully restored to health again. She had an easy and happy time of it now. There was no more trotting up and down, no more bending under heavy loads—it was only very light work her hands were permitted to do; and she would laugh and tell Aunt Hepsy she was making a fine lady of her altogether.
"You do what you're bid, an' say nothin', my dear," was always Aunt Hepsy's answer, with oh, what a difference in look and tone.
There was no restriction to her visiting now. She would spend days at the Red House, in company with her friend Minnie; who, in her turn, would come to Thankful Rest, and keep the house alive with her gay nonsense.
So the summer sped, harvest was ingathered again, and one sunny evening in September, Miss Goldthwaite came up to Thankful Rest on special business. Rumours were afloat that the parsonage was soon to lose Miss Carrie, but they had not yet been confirmed.
Miss Hepsy was in the garden, and gave the parson's sister a warm greeting.
"Is Lucy indoors?" Carrie asked, after they had chatted a moment.
"Yes; I heard her singing a minute ago," answered Aunt Hepsy. "Jes' go in and look for her, Miss Goldthwaite; I'll be in by-and-by."
"Perhaps I had better talk to you first, Miss Hepsy, as you have the power to grant or refuse what I want."
"I don't often say no to ye, Miss Carrie," said Aunt Hepsy with a dry smile.
"I know it; but this is a very serious request—in fact, I am afraid to make it."
"Out with it. I can but say no any way."
Miss Goldthwaite leaned on her parasol, and looked at Aunt Hepsy, smiling, and blushing slightly too.
"Perhaps you know I'm going to be married soon, Miss Hepsy?"
"I hear the folks sayin' so; but I paid no heed, guessin' ye'd come an' tell us afore it took place. Is't to be immediately?"
"At Christmas. But I'm going home to New York in three weeks."
"To get ready," nodded Miss Hepsy. "Well?"
"Can't you guess what I want, Miss Hepsy?"
Miss Hepsy stood a moment in wondering silence, and then said very slowly, "I guess it'll be Lucy ye want."
"Yes; I want her to go home with me, and remain till after my marriage. Frank will bring her back when he comes. Now it's out. Order me off the premises now, Miss Hepsy; I know you feel like it."
"This is September," said Aunt Hepsy very slowly; "October, November, December, January—perhaps nigh half a year. Well, Miss Goldthwaite, excuse me sayin' it, but the Lord'll need to help your husband; he'll not be able to help hisself, that's certain. Ye'd move the Peak, as I've said afore."
"Am I to take that as your permission, Miss Hepsy?"
"Hev ye spoke to Lucy?"
"Not yet; you had to be asked first. If you had said no, I should not have thought of mentioning it to Lucy at all."
"If Lucy wants to go, I'm willin'; but it'll be a queer house without her."
"Thank you, Miss Hepsy," said Carrie, and bent forward and kissed her. "I think you will not regret it. It will soon pass, and will do Lucy a world of good. She is growing up, you know, and wants to see something."
"P'raps you're right," said Aunt Hepsy. "Yes, go in now, Miss Goldthwaite; I want to think a bit."
Carrie went in, and kneeling down on the hearth beside Lucy, said abruptly, "I am going to be married at Christmas, Lucy, and want you for my bridesmaid. I am going home to New York in three weeks, and your aunt says I may take you with me. Will you come?"
Lucy's face flushed with pleasure, but she said quickly,—
"You are very kind, Carrie. I should like it dearly. But would it be right to leave my uncle and aunt?"
"If they say you may, Lucy. I have thought it well over before I mentioned it at all; and I'm sure you would enjoy yourself."
"I know that. May I have a day or two to think of it, Carrie?"
"As many as you like, so that you only come, dear. Now, I'm going off; I haven't a minute to spare.—By-the-by, Alice and Minnie will likely be at papa's, too, all December, so that is another inducement. Goodbye." She stooped and kissed Lucy, and ran out of the house.
Pretty soon Aunt Hepsy came in, looking very grave and sad. She took up her knitting, and for a bit neither spoke.
"Three months is a long time, Aunt Hepsy," said Lucy at last.
Aunt Hepsy never spoke.
Then Lucy rose and came to her, and laid her arm about her neck. "You don't want me to go, auntie, I know you don't."
"Go away; I didn't say I didn't," said Aunt Hepsy in her gruffest tones.
"Auntie, if you will only tell me you would rather I stayed, I won't go."
"Don't ask questions, child. I guess I'd never live through them three months. As well go away for ever almost."
"Then I won't go," said Lucy stoutly. "I'd dearly like to be at Carrie's wedding; but I can't leave you, auntie, for so long." And from that decision no persuasion could induce Lucy to depart—she was firm as a rock; but Aunt Hepsy made a little private arrangement of her own, which was to be kept a profound secret from the bride-elect.
Judge Keane travelled to New York the day before Christmas with a young lady under his care; and when the pair were ushered into Dr. Goldthwaite's drawing-room, the bride-elect saw, peeping out from among the rich furs which Aunt Hepsy had provided for her darling, a face she loved very dearly, and which could belong to nobody in the world but Lucy Hurst.
They were all together in the long drawing-room, waiting only the coming of the bride, ere the solemn ceremony could be performed. There was a large company, for the Goldthwaites had a wide circle of acquaintance. Conspicuous among them were the friends we know best—all the Keanes (save the invalid mother, who thought and prayed for them at home), and Tom and Lucy Hurst. It had been a surprise to Lucy to find him at New York. She had not expected to see him again till the summer-time. She looked very fair and sweet in her delicate white dress, but was utterly unconscious of the admiration she was creating; and of the close observation of a pair of dark earnest eyes, which had been the first gleam of comfort to her when her mother died.
By-and-by, old white-haired Dr. Goldthwaite came in with Carrie on his arm, and they took their places silently; and in a very few minutes Frank had uttered the irrevocable words, and the wedding was over. Then Mr. and Mrs. George Keane received abundant congratulations, and they adjourned to partake of breakfast. In the hall stood a quantity of baggage labelled "Mrs. Keane," which seemed very formidable, but was not much after all, considering the travellers were going to Europe. Yes; the young pair were to have a six months' tour before settling down at Pendlepoint, and some felt as if Carrie were going away for ever. She looked very grave and sad; and when she came down ready to go, broke down utterly bidding her mother good-bye.
"Now then, this will never do," said Judge Keane, with that comical smile of his. "George, get your wife into the carriage, or we shall have her rueing she ever promised to follow you."
Carrie smiled through her tears, and shook her finger at the judge. Then, as she turned to go, a light touch fell upon her arm, and a low voice whispered tremulously,—
"May God bless you all your life, Mrs. Keane."
It was Lucy, her great eyes shining with unspeakable love and tenderness.
"Never Mrs. Keane to you, Lucy, my pet," she whispered back. "Carrie always, and always. Write to me."
Then she was hurried out to the carriage, forgetting in the excitement of the moment that she possessed no address to give. The door closed upon them, the coachman sprang to the box, and the next moment they were gone. They had embarked together on the sea of life, and the voyage bade fair to be a happy and prosperous one.
"I don't like weddings," said Judge Keane discontentedly. "They are miserable, heart-breaking things at the best."
"Time was when you did not think so, judge," said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.—"Eh, little one?"
It was Lucy whom the doctor addressed, and she answered timidly, "It is very sad to give away those we love, as you have done to-day, sir."
"Wait till somebody wants to take you away, my lady," laughed the judge. "There'll be an earthquake at Thankful Rest."
"I never heard any one speak as you do, Judge Keane," said Lucy, with a dignity which dumfoundered Tom; and she moved away and sat down by Mrs. Goldthwaite, and began to talk to her about Carrie.
"What makes you look so sober, Tom Hurst?" queried Minnie Keane's voice at his elbow a few minutes later.
"Shall I tell you, Minnie?"
"You must," was the calm reply.
"It seems to me, then," he said very slowly, "that Lucy is growing up, and I don't like it. Do you?"
"I don't mind. Everybody grows up and marries, and goes to Europe, and dies after a bit; that's about what life amounts to—not much, is it?"
Tom laughed, he couldn't help it; but after a bit he answered gravely, "I am afraid to grow up myself, Minnie."
"Why?"
"Because a man has so much responsibility, so much to do for God: I don't think it will be very easy."
"Oh, I do!" answered Minnie. "Just do all you can, with all your might; that's what mamma says, and it's the easiest way."
"So it is," said Tom. "I shan't forget that, Minnie."
And neither he did.
XVI.FIVE YEARS AFTER.
XVI.FIVE YEARS AFTER.
Again it was sweet spring-time at Thankful Rest. The garden was gay with tender leaves and blossoms, and the orchard white with bloom. There the birds made sweet melody as of yore; and, as of yore, the sunny river brawled and whispered and played as it hurried through the meadow to the sea.
At five o'clock in the afternoon Aunt Hepsy was in the kitchen, busy as usual; her hands knew no idleness. Two teacups and a plate of cake stood on the table, the remnants of the early tea she and Lucy had taken a little while before. Presently a light step sounded in the lobby, and Lucy came in dressed for walking. Five years make a great change; for she had grown from a slight, diminutive girl, to a tall, lithe, graceful young lady, just on the verge of womanhood.
"Ye look like a picter, by all the world," said Aunt Hepsy, pausing to admire her; and Lucy's answer was a silvery laugh, so full of perfect happiness and content, that a silent bird on the window ledge caught the infection and burst into song.
"I'm going to the post-office to see if there's a letter from Tom, Aunt Hepsy," she said; "and then to Dovecot, to see Mrs. George Keane. I'll be back sure before dark."
"Ye'd better," said Aunt Hepsy, with something of her ancient grimness. "The house ain't worth livin' in when ye're out."
Lucy came close to Aunt Hepsy, and laying her gloved hands on her shoulders, bent tender, beaming eyes on her face. "It makes me so thankful, auntie, to think you miss me, and are glad when I come back. I don't suppose there's a happier girl anywhere than I am."
"Nor a happier pair than ye make yer uncle an' me," said Aunt Hepsy softly. "Off ye go, ye waste my time like anything; time was when I'd make ye fly round considerable if ye'd ventured."
Lucy laughed, and went her way, turning aside as she went through the paddock for a pleasant word with Uncle Josh ploughing in the low meadow. He stopped his team to watch the pretty girlish figure out of sight. Crossing the bridge she met Ebenezer going with a letter to Thankful Rest. It was for her, and in Tom's handwriting. There was no need for her to go down to the town, and she turned in the direction of the Dovecot, which was the name of the pretty home occupied by George Keane and his wife. It was midway between the Red House and the parsonage, and fifteen minutes' leisurely walking brought her to it. Miss Goldthwaite had been married four years past, and had one little son, the joy and torment of her life. He was in bed, however, when Lucy called, so there was a chance of a moment's quiet talk.
"I have had a letter from Tom to-night, Carrie," she said when the first greetings were over. "His picture has sold for five hundred dollars."
"O Lucy, I am so glad. Such a success for a young artist! How proud Robert will be of his pupil."
Lucy's eyes beamed her pride, though she said very little.
"Frank is here," said Mrs. Keane after a moment. "He is out somewhere with George; let us find them, and communicate the good news. What will Aunt Hepsy say?"
They rose and went out into the sweet spring twilight and found Mr. Goldthwaite and Mr. George Keane in the garden at the back. There were warm congratulations from both, and an hour slipped away in discussing the artist, his work and prospects, till Lucy remembered her promise to Aunt Hepsy, and said that she must be going. Mr. Goldthwaite would return too, he said, as it was growing late. His sister fancied Lucy's company was an inducement to him to leave so early, but she discreetly held her peace.
It was almost dark, though the lamp was not lit at Thankful Rest, when Lucy reached home.
"You've kept your time," said Aunt Hepsy well pleased. "Did ye come home alone?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," answered Lucy very low, and the semi-darkness hid her face. "Mr. Goldthwaite was at Dovecot, and walked home with me."
"Mrs. Keane's folks all well?" asked Aunt Hepsy, suspecting nothing.
"Yes; and O Aunt Hepsy, I have a letter from Tom: his picture in the exhibition has sold for five hundred dollars."
Aunt Hepsy uplifted her hands in mute amazement.
"Marcy on us," she exclaimed at last. "What a power o' money for a picter! Is't true, Lucy?"
"Yes, quite true; and he has got such praise for it," said Lucy joyfully. "Aren't you proud of him, Aunt Hepsy?"
"I guess I am," said Aunt Hepsy. "Five hundred dollars! Dear, dear! What will Josh say to this? Does he say anything about coming home soon?"
"I'll read you the letter when the lamp's lighted, auntie," said Lucy.
"Well, light it, there's a good child; it's 'most time anyway. I've been idle a good half-hour."
But Lucy did not seem in any hurry. She hovered about in an odd, restless kind of way, and finally came behind Aunt Hepsy's chair, and folded her hands on her shoulder.
"What is it, child?" said Aunt Hepsy wonderingly. "Summat you have to tell me, I reckon. Anything in Tom's letter ye haven't told me?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," and Lucy's voice fell very low now. "I want to tell you—I have promised to be Mr. Goldthwaite's wife."
"Bless me, Lucy, 'tain't true?" cried Aunt Hepsy, starting up; and seeing in Lucy's downcast face confirmation of her words, she sank back to her chair, and for the first and only time in her life Aunt Hepsy went off into hysterics.
In the tender gloaming of an August evening Tom and Lucy Hurst stood together within the porch at Thankful Rest. They had been at Pendlepoint visiting old friends, and, after walking slowly home, lingered here talking of old times, and loath to leave the soft beauty of the summer night. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow was Tom Hurst now, towering a head above his sister, who stood very close to him, her head leaning against his shoulder.
"Do you remember what a pair of miserable little creatures stood just here five years ago, Lucy?" he said half laughingly, half earnestly.
"Yes," said Lucy softly. "What a difference between then and now."
There was a moment's silence. Tom's eyes watched the stars peeping out one by one in the opal sky, his heart full of the happiness of the present and all the hope and promise of the future.
Presently Aunt Hepsy, ever watchful for Lucy now, called to them to come in, for the dews were falling.
"Tom, has not God cast our lines in pleasant places, and given us a goodly heritage?" said Lucy softly as they turned to obey the summons.
"Ay," answered Tom, his voice softening also. "May He help us to be truly grateful for His goodness all our lives, Lucy."