me about them," and even then would have been tortured by her conscience,
because she did not say why she was waiting.

While his mother was telling him of Mercy's call, and of the report Marty
had brought back of the decorations of the rooms, Stephen stood with his
face bent over the ferns, apparently absorbed in studying each leaf
minutely; then he walked to the windows and examined the wreaths. He felt
himself so suddenly gladdened by these tokens of Mercy's presence, and by
his mother's evident change of feeling towards her, that he feared his
face would betray too much pleasure; he feared to speak, lest his voice
should do the same thing. He was forced to make a great effort to speak in
a judiciously indifferent tone, as he said,--

"Indeed, they are very pretty. I never saw mosses so beautifully arranged;
and it was so thoughtful of her to bring them in for you for Christmas
Eve. I wish we had something to send in to them, don't you?"

"Well, I've been thinking," said his mother, "that we might ask them to
come in and take dinner with us to-morrow. Marty's made some capital
mince-pies, and is going to roast a turkey. I don't believe they'll be
goin' to have any thing better, do you, Stephen?"

Stephen walked very suddenly to the fire, and made a feint of rearranging
it, that he might turn his face entirely away from his mother's sight. He
was almost dumb with astonishment. A certain fear mingled with it. What
meant this sudden change? Did it portend good or evil? It seemed too
sudden, too inexplicable, to be genuine. Stephen had yet to learn the
magic power which Mercy Philbrick had to compel the liking even of people
who did not choose to like her.