fellowship. She said the simple form of words she had always
used; but a new spirit seemed to inspire them; and she
finished with a new petition--"Let me think of something I can
do for her, dear Father--some little, little thing that I can
do for her."

The Old Lady had slept in the same room all her life--the one
looking north into the spruces--and loved it; but the next day
she moved into the spare room without a regret. It was to be
her room after this; she must be where she could see Sylvia's
light, she put the bed where she could lie in it and look at
that earth star which had suddenly shone across the twilight
shadows of her heart. She felt very happy, she had not felt
happy for many years; but now a strange, new, dream-like
interest, remote from the harsh realities of her existence,
but none the less comforting and alluring, had entered into
her life. Besides, she had thought of something she could do
for Sylvia--"a little, little thing" that might give her
pleasure.

Spencervale people were wont to say regretfully that there
were no Mayflowers in Spencervale; the Spencervale young fry,
when they wanted Mayflowers, thought they had to go over to
the barrens at Avonlea, six miles away, for them. Old Lady
Lloyd knew better. In her many long, solitary rambles, she had
discovered a little clearing far back in the woods--a
southward-sloping, sandy hill on a tract of woodland belonging
to a man who lived in town--which in spring was starred over
with the pink and white of arbutus.