Angy laughed. She laughed softly and with unutterable pride in her
husband.

"Why, Father, don't yer see yew kin buy back the old chair, an' the old
place, too, an' then have plenty ter spare?"

"So we kin, Mother, so we kin"; he nodded his head, surprised. He
plunged his hands into his pockets, as if expecting to find them filled
with gold. "Wonder ef Sam'l wouldn't lend me a dollar or so in small
change. Ef I only had somethin' ter jingle, mebbe I could git closer to
this fac'." He drew her to him, and gave her waist a jovial squeeze.
"Hy-guy, Mother, we're rich! Hain't it splendid?"

Their laughter rang out together--trembling, near-to-tears laughter.
The old place, the old chair, the old way, and--plenty! Plenty to mend
the shingles. Aye, plenty to rebuild the house, if they chose. Plenty
with which to win back the smiles of Angy's garden. The dreadful dream
of need, and lack, and want, of feeding at the hand of charity, was gone
by.

Plenty! Ah, the goodness and greatness of God! Plenty! Abe wanted to cry
it out from the housetops. He wanted all the world to hear. He wished
that he might gather his wealth together and drop it piece by piece
among the multitude. To give where he had been given, to blossom with
abundance where he had withered with penury!

The little wife read his thoughts. "We'll save jest enough fer ourselves
ter keep us in comfort the rest of our lives an' bury us decent."

They were quiet a long while, both sitting with bowed heads as if in