wisdom, Jacob must come to see it so; and 'tis no help, but a deal of
hindrance, when folks set aside chairs and the like, and see only them
that's gone sitting in them." Then, seeing Hilda's look of bewilderment,
she added, laying her hand gently on the girl's soft hair: "You see,
dear, we had a daughter of our own this time last year. Our only one she
was, and just about your age,--the light of our eyes, our Faith. She
was a good girl, strong and loving and heartsome, and almost as pretty
as yourself, Hilda dear; but the Father had need of her, so she was
taken from us for a while. It was cruel hard for Jacob; cruel, cruel
hard. He can't seem to see, even now, that it was right, or it wouldn't
have been so. And so I can tell just what he felt, coming in just now,
sudden like, and seeing you sitting in Faith's chair. Like as not he
forgot it all for a minute, and thought it was herself. She had a blue
dress that he always liked, and she'd sit here and sing, and the sun
coming in on her through her own window there, as she always called it:
like a pretty picture she was, our Faith."

"Oh!" cried Hilda, taking the brown, motherly hand in both of hers, "I
am so very, very sorry, dear Nurse Lucy! I did not know! I will never
sit here again. I thought--"

But she was ashamed to say what she had thought,--that this chair and
table had been set for her to tempt her to sit down "in a kitchen!" She
could hear herself say it as she had said it last night, with a world of
scornful emphasis. How long it seemed since last night; how much older
she had grown! And yet--and yet somehow she felt a great deal younger.

All this passed through her mind in a moment; but Nurse Lucy was petting
her, and saying: "Nay, dearie; nay, child! This is just where I want you
to sit. 'Twill be a real help to Farmer, once he is used to it. Hark! I